There is a recent trend among millennials. They have taken a break from coifing their man-buns and drinking “locally roasted” “small batch” coffee, to start a new irritating trend. They’re buying record players. I first noticed this when my millennial daughter bought one. Then my millennial nephew. It’s an epidemic. But here’s the rub –

Millennials (primarily, male millennials) are defending their purchase of these record players by claiming they produce better sound. Female millennials are quick to admit they are buying them because they’re cool, but male millennials can’t bring themselves to admit this. So they’ve invented this excuse. Of course, there is only one reason they could think people will believe this – They’ve wound their man-buns too tight.

My millennial friends and relatives: Please take it from the hundreds of millions of us around the globe that have lived in both the vinyl and digital music world. Your claim that vinyl records produce better sound is FAKE NEWS!

Listen up –

Dust. That cardboard sleeve records are sold in is called a “dust jacket.” Any speck of dust on the record causes an irritating little “pop” when the needle hits it. Dust jackets help keep the dust off, but unless you’re planning on playing your records inside the “clean room” at MIT’s Nanotechnology Department, it’s always an issue.

Scratching. Vinyl records scratch easily. True, this is only a problem if you want to actually play your record. And even then, it’s only a problem during each rotation. Let’s put it this way – The sound of the needle hitting a scratch makes you long for the comparatively melodic “pop” of the needle hitting a speck of dust.

Warping. Vinyl records warp. If a vinyl record even thinks you are going to take it outside, or heaven help you, you leave it in your car for thirty seconds when the temperature is above freezing, it’s going heat up and warp. See how much better it sounds than digital after that.

And the Granddaddy reason of them all that confirms, beyond even the wildest millennial speculation, that digital music sounds better than vinyl…

Digital music has practically wiped out musicians’ profits. They have to go on the road and sell concert tickets to make any real money. That wasn’t the case when they sold vinyl. If musicians thought for a moment that they could convince their fans that records sounded better, they would be promoting that fact 24/7. They’d never shut up about it. You would see an endless stream of commercials on television and radio promoting vinyl records. There is nothing easier to bootleg than digital music.

I was stuck behind a pickup recently. I’m not sure why, but this truck
seemed incredibly masculine. I thought that perhaps it was the style
of the bumper. But on closer inspection, the bumper seemed quite ordinary —

Then, I thought it might be the license plate. But what’s more
gender-neutral than a Hawaiian license plate? It’s got a rainbow on it
for goodness sake. Take a look —

So that wasn’t the reason.

I just couldn’t figure it out. I was baffled.

Then it struck me! Somebody had hung a pair of balls on it !

BALLS!

BALLS on their truck!

Let’s pause for a moment and consider this. Someone —

A. Decided that hanging a pair of balls on their truck would make an appealing statement about himself.

B. Invested the time to find AND BUY a pair of balls. (Where would you even shop?) Does Amazon carry truck balls? Would Amazon ever even consider marketing such a crass and tasteless product? OF COURSE IT WOULD! Here is but a small sample of the plethora of truck balls available RIGHT NOW on Amazon.com—

(And, as you can see, they are surprisingly affordable.)

And,

C. Fastened them securely to his truck. (I assume that when this
person attaches his balls, he does so securely. I don’t see him taking
a chance that his balls might fall off.)

Where does a person like this work? I don’t want to spread any stereotypes, but I’ll spread a couple of stereotypes. I have a difficult time believing he’s a hairdresser. I also have trouble believing he’s a
florist. But hey, what do I know. Maybe truck balls are a trend in the
hairdressing community. Maybe there are rows of truck balls lined up in hairdressing parking lots.

I’m pretty sure that everyone who has the misfortune of following a pair of these boys is thinking the same thing. This truck doesn’t seem fully “intact.” The [slang word for the famous male body part that starts with the letter “D”] is missing. Please allow me to disabuse you of this notion. These trucks are 100% fully “intact.” The D*** is there all right. He’s driving the truck.

_________________

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My wife and I went to dinner with two other couples last Friday night. It was a very pleasant evening with one minor exception. One of the couples, John and Julie, who are the nicest people in the world, tried to kill me. Don’t get me wrong, I love these people, but one more assassination attempt, and it might negatively affect our relationship.

I should have seen it coming. Shortly after we sat down, Julie ordered a Bloody Mary. A Bloody Mary. But was I paying attention? Did this place me on alert? In my defense, I was distracted by how tasty the drink looked.

What method did this lovely couple use to try to kill me? Poison? Too pedestrian. Stiletto? Passé. Their plan was far more clever, and if I may say, devious. They chose Death by Pretzel. Specifically, Bavarian pretzel.

The plan ingeniously took advantage of the fact that I am an Oregon State University alumni. In other words, I am a Beaver – a proud member of Beaver Nation. Here is a description of the deadly appetizer from the menu –

Beaver mustard? Certainly they knew I could not resist. I picked up a piece of pretzel and dipped it in the beaver mustard. Then I enthusiastically bit down. I immediately noticed its texture. It was as soft and chewy as a lug wrench. And, it broke off part of my tooth. (Talk about a “killer appetizer.”)

Luckily for me, at my dentist’s office, comfort is “Job One.” No expense is spared. Here is the view from the dental chair showing the soft, body-sculpted, yet ergo dynamic visitor’s chair –

I hadn’t been to my dentist in some time, and shortly after the assistant had me take a seat in the dental chair, a very serious face swung around to greet me. At first, I thought it was my dentist, Dr. Larson. (He has been getting up in age). But then I realized he couldn’t have changed THAT much. Here’s the face –

It turned out to be Tucker, a certified “Dental Emotional Support Dog.” Okay, he might not be officially certified – maybe online or something.

Dr. Larson arrived, and I was amazed at his skill. Not every dentist can treat a patient while a 150 pound dog is trying to climb on the patient’s lap. (Tucker takes his job very seriously.)

As a result of this “near miss” on my life, and after deep contemplation, I have reluctantly decided to placed John and Julie on “double secret probation.” Absolute zero tolerance. I’m putting my foot down. One more attempt to take my life, and they will pay the ultimate price. I’m going to make them come with me to Dr. Larson’s office and sit in that visitor’s chair.

_______

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My investment advisor recently told me that the stock market is ripe for a “correction.” “Correction” is code for, “Hold onto your shorts, your 401K is about to enter a death spiral steeper than an Acapulco cliff diver.” Luckily, I have stumbled onto a new investment strategy – french bulldogs.

As my loyal readers know, I occasionally dog sit for my daughter’s dog, Milo. I consider myself a minority shareholder in a kind of “doggy timeshare.” But my percentage is pretty skimpy, so I started looking for my own dog.

About one second into researching french bulldogs, I discovered their most prominent feature – They cost their weight in gold-plated, diamond studded platinum. The puppy above is a bargain at $3,600. That’s not a typo. It’s Three Thousand, Six-Hundred Dollars! And that’s just because it probably has buck teeth, or maybe it’s missing a standard body part. Here’s one a little farther up the price chain –

To put this in perspective, Milo cost $1.95. (Or maybe the pound just gave him away. I’m not sure.) How did this happen? A cute dog like Milo is practically free, and a french bulldog, not exactly known for their ravenous beauty, cost the same as a modestly used Hyundai Sonata?

Because I’m a cheapskate, I didn’t want to shell out thousands on an ugly dog. So I decided to google, “Reasons not to own a french bulldog.”

This article popped up – “10 Reasons to NOT Adopting or Buying a French Bulldog,” by Ignacio Santiago. Reason #1 was, “Possibly, it is the most flatulent dog of the world.” Here is his full commentary on reason #1:

“Don´t make a mistake, we are not talking about one or two farts per
week. We are talking about a constant cloud of bad smell around the
french bulldog. Not only that, also they burp after eating. Besides,
don´t think they will cut you off when someone is visiting. Whoever it
is, they will eat a frenchie fart 100% sure.”

French bulldogs are the Gatling gun of canine farters. But, when considering any investment, the first rule is Do The Math. Here it is –

Let’s say you buy one of the cheaper, possibly defective, french bulldog’s for $3,600.

French bulldogs live an average of 11 years.

That’s about 4, 015 days.

That’s only about 90 cents a day.

At an average of 10 FPDs (Farts per day), that’s only 9 cents a fart.

That’s not bad.

This is why (all you kids out there, listen up) math is so important. Because now we know that mathematically speaking french bulldogs are currently a bargain. But the clock is ticking.

I’m going to cash out my 401K and corner the market. All you suckers can go ahead and stand firm with the stock market. But with carefully planning, and the right strategy, as the average FPD increases to 12 cents, or (do I dare to dream?) 15 cents, I’ll be sitting pretty. Smelly, yes. But pretty.

____

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My wife and I recently attended a performance of The Barber of Seville at the Kennedy Center. This turned out to be quite a challenge for me because I have a bladder the size of a walnut. My wife had obtained our tickets at a charity auction, and neither of us had been to the Kennedy Center, or ever attended an opera for that matter.

We arrived early, and my wife kept saying she wanted to visit something called the Russian Lounge. I pictured a windowless, smoke-filled room where oligarchs sat around discussing who among their adversaries “needed to go” (as in, permanently). As it turned out, I was precisely correct. No, no. Just kidding. The Russian Lounge in the Kennedy Center’s opera house is where patrons hang out before performances and during intermission (or, as I refer to it, “halftime”). Here it is –

This picture is clipped pretty hard because the last things these generous rich folks need is a cameo in my smart-alack (yet highly informative) column. Trust me, they were all dressed to the nines, carried themselves with polished demeanor, and had an average age of 107. Just kidding, again! The average age couldn’t have been a day over 91.

The Russian Lounge is where I made my big mistake. I ordered a bourbon. Bourbon, as my wife will tell you with a pained look on her face, is my Kryptonite. I digest bourbon as well as dogs digest chocolate. It never ends well.

After sliding the last drop of that mistake down my throat, we headed to our seats. We were thrilled – forth row, center. I looked back and surveyed the massive audience of 2,700. Here are the balconies.

I would have included the main floor, but too many people were staring at me when I lifted my camera. They all look richer and far more sophisticated than me, so I didn’t have the nerve to include them in the photo.

The first half of The Barber of Seville is about 90 minutes. At 35 minutes, my bladder started to percolate. At 40 minutes, things were tightening up, and it was dawning on me that I wasn’t going to make it to intermission. I turned to my wife and told her I had to go. She shook her head firmly and said, “No.” She was absolutely correct. It wasn’t an event where people wandered in and out. In fact, no one had.

At 45 minutes, I was waiting for a break in the action to make my move. But Opera singers are like those whales that can take a breath and remain submerged for hours. Just as their voices would begin to fade, and I would grip my armrests preparing to make my move, their voices would shoot back up and launch into another verse.

Finally, a song ended, and people began clapping. It was my big chance. I turned to my wife and said, “I’ve got to go.”

A look of horror shot across her face, and she silently mouthed, “Don’t go!”

I didn’t have the luxury of time to plead my case. I simply gazed deep into her despondent eyes and said, “I’m sorry.” Then I turned and dashed up the aisle.

In retrospect, I blame the Kennedy Center for allowing me to attend in the first place. This is the premier center for the arts in entire United States. Don’t they have standards? Even the most rudimentary background check is going to disclose that I am from Alsea. A team of armed security guards should have been waiting for me at the entry to initiate a full pat-down, water-boarding, and, of course, bladder check.

The next time I go to the opera, I’m going to take the same precautions I do when I fly in a single engine plane – It’s liquid deprivation for a minimum of six hours preflight (or in this case – “pre-opera”).

_______

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There are three rules to getting upgraded to First Class: 1. Get to the gate early. 2. Dress professionally. And 3. Own the airline. Okay, I was just kidding about number 3. You don’t need to own the airline. You only need to be Chairman of the Board of the airline.

There is nothing sweeter than being upgraded to First Class. Or, at least, this is what I’m told. I myself personally have never been upgraded to First Class, although I have been upgrade to Toilet Class. You might even say that I am a frequent flyer when it comes to flying Toilet Class.

There are two levels of Toilet Class. The first is the seats directly in front of the toilets that don’t recline. Thus, you are not able to “stretch out” and luxuriate in that extra 1½ inches of leg room. While this is not the highest level of Toilet Class, it still allows you to enjoy having a line of people hovering over you with their legs crossed. The second, or “Top Tier” Toilet Class (unfortunately, not all plane configurations have this) is the seat directly to the side of the toilet. From my considerable experience, you sit to the right of the lavatory door. Here is your view –The exception to this being your view is when someone’s butt is your view.

A bonus to the top-tier Toilet Class seat is inhaling a whiff of that chemical smell every time someone exits.

One of the most memorable flights I have ever had was returning from Hawaii a few years ago sitting on the aisle directly across from the toilet. Now, the fact that I was sitting by the toilet is not what made this flight memorable. In fact, that just made it another day in the life – It’s almost my assigned seat. No, what made this trip memorable was that something was wrong with the door latch. So each of the 1,005 times someone left the toilet and shut the door, within a moment, the door swung back open in my direction. I literally spent five and a half hours shutting the toilet door.

My main point is this – If a First Class ticket costs four times as much as a coach ticket, shouldn’t a Toilet Class ticket cost four times less? Trust me when I say this – The “flying experience” of someone seated mid-cabin is notably better than someone who has to shut the toilet door every five seconds.

Jack, you might ask, “What can I do to increase my chances that I will be upgraded to Toilet Class?” Three things: 1. Arrive at the gate just as they are preparing to secure the cabin door and the gate agent is wearing that frowny face. 2. Sport a faded Hawaiian shirt and dirty cargo pants. And 3. Be Chairman of the Board of the “I was running too late to comb my hair society.” Trust me on this folks – The flight attendant will immediately direct you back to your specially assigned seat.

_______

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Oregon has a new law forbidding the use of cellphones while driving. It’s extremely strict. In fact, it’s so strict that even thinking about touching your phone while driving is punishable by death. Okay, maybe not that strict, but darn close. The first offense is a big fat fine. The second offense is a bigger fatter fine, and the third offense (and I am not kidding) is punishable by up to six months in jail. You read that correctly. You can get tossed in the slammer for changing the music on your iTunes app.

Potential Future Jail House Conversation –

Meth addict with a picture of Satan tattooed on his forehead, “What’re you in for?”

Me, answering in a quivering voice and slightly peeing myself, “Tapping the Google Maps app on my phone to reroute around a traffic jam.”

Our lawmakers were so concerned about the dangers of using a cellphone while driving, that they made the law apply to everyone. Absolutely everyone. No exceptions. Because, as I stated, it is so dangerous. Oh, wait a minute. There is ONE exception – police officers. Yeah. Big shocker, Oregon’s new law does NOT apply to cops. Apparently, cops undergo a rigorous training course that teaches them specialized techniques which enable them to safely drive while chatting on the phone with their girlfriends.

So, imagine my shock when my wife and I were heading north on Interstate 5 south of Portland yesterday when I spot a car with what appeared to be a bunch of women’s legs sticking out the top.

I nearly had an accident yelling for my wife to take a picture of it, so that I could report this clear and present danger to you, the driving public. Even though I knew I was risking bodily death backing traffic up in the fast lane behind me while my wife snapped a picture. I felt it imperative to bring this disturbing transportational development to your attention.

When I initially spotted the legs, my first impression was that they were all women’s legs. In retrospect, I think the bright yellow tutu on the right caught my attention. However, my astute wife, Julie, announced that a number of the legs appeared to be MEN’S legs! Upon further review, I think she’s right. Here is Exhibit #1 –Now, I can understand why someone would find it beneficial to drive down the freeway with women’s legs sticking out of the top of their car, but I have to draw the line somewhere. No one, and I mean no one, should risk a multi-car pile-up over the revulsion of seeing a bunch of gross hairy men’s legs sticking out of the top of a car. It’s just wrong.

I’m writing a letter to my state representative, and telling her that we need to amend our new cellphone law. We need to forbid, once and for all, allowing men’s legs to stick out the top of cars. And the penalty should be stiff. I suggest a mandatory minimum of six months in the slammer – PER HAIRY LEG!

_______

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Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness–

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

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My beautiful daughter bought me a Hydro Flask for my birthday. I was touched by her thoughtfulness – for nearly 24 hours. Then I realized that she had taken the saying, “When you buy a gift, buy something you’d like to have yourself,” a little too far. It dawned on me that she had IN FACT bought herself a gift because every time I go looking for it, she has it. (Okay, okay, I can hear her saying, “Not every time!” And yes, I am exaggerating. It is only 97% of the time.)

At long last I have found a solution. I’ve named it, the “Not over my dead body” solution, or NOMDB for short.

NOMDB is simple to use. Here is an example:

I live in a Eugene, Oregon, or more officially, “The People’s Republic of Eugene.” To put it mildly, Hillary got 105% of the vote here. Any time there is a march or rally in Eugene, twice as many people show up than actually live in the city. You know those pink hats that folks started wearing after the last presidential election? The ones they refer to by that name that starts with a “P” and is a slang term for a popular part of the female anatomy? A Eugene City Ordinance requires every household to own at least two. I’m not saying they’d jail you if they discovered you only had one P**** Hat, but it would at least be a hefty fine.

But I digress. The NOMDB method involves gauging the political climate in your area and then putting a sticker on the item you don’t want borrowed. For example, it will be a cold day in H-E-double-toothpicks before my daughter borrows a Hydro Flask with an NRA sticker on it. Or a Trump sticker. Here is the rule when choosing your sticker: Would your loved one respond, “Not over my dead body”? Bingo!

You’d like to try NOMDB but don’t have a sticker handy? Order it on Amazon. Here’s one for sale right now–You live in Dallas? No problem. Just put one of these in your Amazon “cart”–

If you ladies in Texas really want to keep your man’s mitts off your Hydro Flask, one of these stickers is going to do the trick. Believe me, he’s not going to want to announce to his buddies at the shooting range that–I’m not saying the use of this technique is without risk. Walking through downtown Eugene with an NRA or MAGA sticker could be extremely dangerous to you bodily health. Someone with a COEXIST bumper sticker might become enraged and decide to shove it up your uncomfortable place. But the world belongs to the bold. “Speak your truth.”

Attention “General Public”: I’m not asking, I’m begging. Unless you are describing a rich, full-bodied South American coffee, please, please, P-L-E-A-S-E, stop using the word robust every five seconds. Cease and desist, people. It’s getting brutal.

Let’s stop for a moment and do some research. The Oxford English Dictionary formally defines the word “Robust” as follows:

“ADJECTIVE –

A descriptive word used by blowhards on both ends of the political spectrum trying to sound smarter than they are. (i.e. “The new tax cuts are likely to make our country’s economy, as well as the size of my posterior, considerably more robust.”)

(Esp. British) A descriptive word used by blowhards in the middle of the political spectrum too. (i.e. “Hey, I might not be an extremist, but my posterior is also robust, just more moderately so.”)

If you question my complaint about how insane the use of this word has become, consider playing–

“The Robust Drinking Game”

Step 1. Turn on a talking head show (MSNBC, Fox News – it doesn’t matter) (Just make sure it’s one where the host sits there with a robust, self-satisfied look on his face).

Step 2. Take a shot of tequila every time someone who couldn’t change his own tire if you offered him a million bucks uses the word “robust.”

Step 3. After the bottle is empty, every player must describe the taste of the tequila in a single sentence, but it must include the word “robust.”

Stupid Real Life Uses of the Word Robust –

“We have the most robust military in the world.”

“The symphony’s performance schedule this season is particularly robust.”

“The subject of this episode of My 600 Pound Life is, to put it mildly, one very robust fellow.”

If you happen to be the 1 in 100,000 people who haven’t noticed the recent upsurge in the use of this word, keep your ears open this week. You’ll begin to notice it popping up more frequently than groundhogs in a Nebraska corn field.

Next week’s rant: The word “profound” doesn’t make you sound smart either.

Now that my rage over the abuse of the word robust has momentarily subsided, I’m taking a coffee break. I am going to go enjoy a rich, full-bodied South American blend. It’s a wonderful coffee, and I highly recommend it. I’d like to describe it to you, but for the life of me, I can’t think of the right word.

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The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness at –

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

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The 2020 presidential election is going to make 2016 look like a 1950’s sock hop. The debate committee is already searching for a venue to hold a mud wrestling match. Michael Buffer, of “Let’s get ready to rumble!” fame, has agreed to announce it. Crazy Jesse Ventura will referee.

Of course, this is only after the primaries. It will be the Democrats’ turn to field a modest group of 40 or 50 hopefuls. That’s right. It’s going to be a tidal wave of egos. A tsunami of self-entitlement. One lady in Ohio says her cat is running. “It’s a swing state,” she (the lady, not the cat) recently told a reporter. “That’ll give Beatrice a sizeable advantage. Plus, she’s got one of those flat faces. People love that. That’ll make her memorable.”

In the end, it will come down to two people, both clinically insane enough to run for president, “squaring off” toe to toe. The least I can do is provide a few bipartisan pointers –

Empathy is critical. Show voters that you honor the military. Those who have fought, endured great hardship and even died. However, and this is important, draw a hard line on one point. Use this phrase, “I like people who weren’t captured.”

“Speak your truth.” Voters like politicians who are honest and don’t hold back their real opinions. Don’t be afraid to describe a large portion of the electorate in memorable terms. Use a term that will resonate with voters throughout the campaign. Consider using this term – “deplorable.” That’ll warm their hearts.

Use your nationally televised debate time carefully. You won’t have time to explain each of your policies. So, begin with the issue that the public is most concerned about – the size of your [insert word for famous male body part]. Hold your hands out like you’re describing the last fish you caught.

Pay strict attention to your demeanor. Voters want to feel a connection, a sincerity, a warmth. One technique to achieve this is to scream your speeches. And this is extremely important, NEVER smile. Put on your angry face. (Think: “crabby.”)

Pepper your campaign speeches with references to family values. Voters eat that stuff up. And this is critical – adamantly deny that you sleep with that porn star that you slept with.

Demonstrate you have the strength, energy and stamina to take on the demanding job of president. Do this, for example, by collapsing in front of the media as you’re walking to your vehicle. Don’t hold back – go for it. Drop like a sack of potatoes.

Bonus advice – Listen to the media. The networks will use their resources to provide you day by day polling to let you know where you stand with the voters. And if they tell you that you’re way ahead, that there’s no way your opponent can overtake you, relax. Take a few days off the campaign trail. Remember, these are trained, objective professionals. They are the backbone of our democracy. You can rely on their reporting.

Meanwhile, I have a problem. I’m a cheapskate, and I don’t like to pay those exorbitant sports arena snack prices. I’m still deciding how I’m going to sneak my Walmart snacks into the mud wrestling match.

_______

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